I Was So Alone And I Owe You So Much
by PhoenixDragonDreamer
Summary: When did my life become this?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Please forgive the sloppiness. I sat down and wrote this in one go, and it is part of a much larger fic that I'm waffling on writing. There are so many awesome Sherlock writers out there and so VERY many TRF fics that I'm afraid mine will not stand out much at all. Suspect I'm crap at writing for this Fandom, but you can blame my friends for pushing me to write it *laughs*  
**A/N2:** Originally posted at ElJay March 14, 2012  
**Disclaimer(s):** Alas, I do not own BBC Sherlock of any characters therein. That is solely the pleasure of S. Mofftat, M. Gatiss and the BBC Networks. Just having a bit of fun - no money made, please don't sue.

* * *

**So Alone**

He tried to remember: One foot in front of the other. Breathe deeply, evenly -

_When did my life become this?_

try to not make every movement mechanical. Keep it loose, keep it steady.

_Get a grip, Johnnie_

He stopped answering his phone. There was no point anyway. Even got one from Harry - resisted the urge to call back and ask her what pub she was in. It would be pointless and mean and -

"_You...you _machine_ - sod it, I'm going -_"

Breathe.

He didn't go to the funeral. That would be pointless and mean as well. Too many reporters, too much of everything. The funeral would either be packed full of people who were perfectly happy he was dead...or those sad few that weren't.

"_I don't have friends_ -"

Which would be him and Mrs. Hudson...maybe Molly...maybe Mike.

Lestrade would be too busy. Wasn't going to be able to bail out of this one - was likely docked, sacked - career tanked because of -

Mycroft would probably be working. Wouldn't do to acknowledge a brother who had embarrassed him not once, but _twice_; he would be too busy (for quite awhile) cleaning up the ramifications of 'fraud' and 'brother of' with his contacts and coworkers

"_Mycroft __is__ the government_"

to stop to mourn a man he had helped destroy.

Arrogance had gotten them both into this mess. But it had killed Sher-

Breathe.

"_You __machine_- "

But who was worse? Mycroft for putting him in the line of fire, or John for leaving him to it?

"_- I've only got one._"

Tea was cold.

"_Please...would you do this for me?_"

John closed his eyes.

It had finally stopped raining...


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Please forgive the sloppiness. I sat down and wrote this in one go, and it is (once more) part of a much larger fic that I'm fiddling with. There are so many awesome Sherlock writers out there and so VERY many TRF fics that I'm afraid mine will not stand out much at all. Suspect I'm crap at writing for this Fandom, but you can blame my friends for pushing me to write it *laughs*  
**Disclaimer(s):** Alas, I do not own BBC Sherlock of any characters therein. That is solely the pleasure of S. Mofftat, M. Gatiss and the BBC Networks. Just having a bit of fun - no money made, please don't sue.

* * *

**Things Not Said**

There is so much he wants to say.

He doesn't know whether it is cowardice, politeness or anger that stays his tongue - but there is so much he wants to say, hours after Sherlock's plummet to oblivion. His brother standing in their flat where he doesn't belong, shouldn't belong, has never belonged - yet here he is.

Mycroft.

In their (his) flat.

Like it was a fucking _social_ call.

Mycroft fiddling with his (damnable) umbrella, looking as lost as John himself felt and he had no right -

So much he wants to say.

Mycroft goes to sit down and he quickly vacates his own seat because he can't stand the thought of Sherlock's brother sitting in _Sherlock's chair_ - actually he can't stand the thought of Sherlock's brother and Sherlock's _anything_ - but his chair...his chair still had the indentations of where he sat, the marks along the arms where he would rest his elbows -

Mycroft had no right to be in his chair.

So _John_ moved to Sherlock's chair, angry that he was changing it (look, feel, so much weight shifting and settling) that Mycroft was forcing his hand. But he'd rather Mycroft sit in _his_ chair, though that meant he's have to hoover it later, erase all memory of that man in their (his) flat.

So much he wants to say.

Mycroft doesn't look at him as he accepts a cup of tea from Ms. Hudson, he doesn't look at him as he straightens the (already perfect) pleats on his trousers, face gray and too calm under the light of John's reading lamp.

He killed his brother. However indirectly - he killed his brother and John can't speak with all the hate that churns through his veins; but he needed to feel something other than the endless dismay and numbness that comes with shock and loss.

Needed to _feel_ -

_I couldn't pass along your message._

He wants to say as he takes a sip of his own tea, ignoring the silence and the deep lines around Mycroft's mouth -

_I couldn't tell him you were sorry_.

Another sip, looking down into the cup, realizing he had fixed the tea the way Sherlock likes it, but not the way he likes it; liquid trembling in the cup.

Damned tremors are back already.

_I couldn't tell him, because he was too busy reeling off his _suicide note_ in my ear like I was taking fucking _dictation.

John could see why Sherlock liked his chair here - you could see the whole room and beyond into the kitchen...

_I swear I could hear it when he hit the ground -_

Ms Hudson passed aimlessly like a ghost, her hands folded together like she was praying, face white against the dark green of her dressing gown. Sherlock had gotten that for her...she'd never worn it until now and usually when they had company you wouldn't catch her dead in her dressing gown -

_I could _hear_ it_...

Mycroft smoothed his trousers again. Took another sip of tea. Set it down in the saucer.

_I couldn't tell him you were sorry. I couldn't tell him to come down, talk to me, listen - just fucking _listen_ -_

Another sip.

Mycroft finally looked at him - eyes unreadable, face calm, calm, calm - voice roughly gentle as if he was dealing with a child.

John wanted to shoot him.

_You don't belong here._

"The funeral...I've set it for a few days from now -"

"I'm not going," John said firmly, hands shaking so bad his cup rattled in its saucer, but too stubborn to put it down.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose, then bunched down, licking his lips as he thought through all the implications of that statement...his mind ticking it over like a fucking calculator -

_You...you _machine -

"If you are worried about the press -"

"I'm not." He sounded flippant and angry, but he didn't care any more. "Because I'm not going."

"John -"

"Don't."

_Don't speak as if you know me. I knew your brother - I cared about your _brother.

Mycroft took another sip of tea, eyes flicking briefly over John's hands, the way his ankles were tucked against one another - leaning forward in his chair aggressively even as he kept his face neutral. John tolerated the scrutiny, only because it seemed to make Mycroft more uncomfortable.

Ms Hudson flickered into sight and back out again.

Sherlock's chair felt warm under his legs.

"If you change your mind -" Mycroft finally began.

"I'm sure your office will have all the details." John finished curtly.

Mycroft's mouth thinned, but he nodded, setting his saucer down with a careful thump, left hand seeking his umbrella with an accuracy that was eerie, familiar and enraging.

_Going so soon?_

He rose to his feet, fingers plucking (once more) at his trousers before smoothing over his lapels, tie, the front of his waistcoat. Nervous gestures that had long become habit. Like it made him (somehow) more human.

John's mouth ached - like biting back all that should be said was affecting him physically.

Mycroft. In their flat. And Sherlock wasn't here - was never going to be here again. It was beyond wrong. What made it worse was Mycroft's inability to see..._anything_. He had killed his brother through the machinations of a raving psychopath and now he was standing in his flat, drinking his tea - talking about his funeral.

John wanted to be sick.

_I couldn't tell him what you should have told him yourself._

Then he wanted to shoot him again.

John closed his eyes, hating how familiar the low murmurs of Ms Hudson and Mycroft were as they exchanged niceties; how it felt like home even though it shouldn't - the void of Sherlock like a stone hovering overhead and any minute now -

_He told me he was a fake, then stepped off to oblivion and I don't know whose fault it is any more._

The creak of the door opening had him prying his eyelids apart, refusing to look weak in front of Sherlock's brother. Refusing to look lost and angry and shaken with this terrible, terrible weight just overhead -

_'I'm a fake -'_

_'No...don't you - _SHERLOCK_!'_

" - sorry. I need to make...further arrangements," Mycroft was saying, but his voice was coming from far away - the only word that thudded through was 'sorry' and John could feel the hate surge through his veins once more; world coming back into focus with a bright intensity that left him blinking against it. "Should you require -"

"I won't," John said tightly, all that should be said eating away at his throat like acid.

"I see."

_No...you really bloody fucking _don't.

Mycroft cleared his throat and turned away, eyes no longer burning through John's flesh - the relief of that grey gaze being gone almost painful, the weight of Mycroft's eyes leaving bruises on John's soul.

So many things he wanted to say.

Ms. Hudson passed through again, a flicker, whisk of sound -

Mycroft was speaking, but he didn't want to hear it; Sherlock's chair was warm under his legs, the arms cold under his arms and he couldn't breathe through it and he didn't want to bloody fucking _**hear**__ it_ -

"Don't."

An order or a plea.

A pause for breath.

The door shut with a soft click -

_not a rattling slam_

- and there were so many things left to say.

But the man who was suppose to hear them wasn't there.


End file.
